Garden fence
Garden fence
BLESSED BE THE GARDEN
I had as soon read fairy stories to my children in the Congressional Library as to walk in some of the gardens I have seen. For me a garden should be part of one’s abode, simply another room to step into when the mood requires, a place for early morning investigation and for evening solitude. And such a garden is mine. Why gardens should be made solely a place of exhibition, why they should be tortured into tedious formality and used only on social occasions, is a mystery to me.
Like a good many other things, the use made of gardens by their owners depends a great deal on the owner’s attitude toward gardens in general.
I am familiar with two; one the grand manner, which dismisses all details to underlings and which accepts the garden simply as a useful decorative accessory of a highly ornamental life. This manner, for the most obvious of reasons, is not mine. Nor do I accept the over-intimate and prying fussiness of some garden owners: those good people who tell you they know every plant and every flower, who dilate on the doubtful pleasure of doing all the work themselves, who brazenly acclaim the fact that the garden has no secrets from them.
I feel like saying to them: “Dear sir, or madam, what is—what can be your idea of a garden? Is it a laboratory? Is it a workshop? Is it a public house? Do you not know that a becoming reticence is Nature’s greatest charm? She does not want you prying about with your little shovel; she knows what she is doing. Your relation with your garden is quite different from that with your iceman. It is wise to know as much as you can about your iceman, but do leave your garden in peace. Beside, youare in a fair way to lose all that is best in having a garden, if you have not done so already.”
I feel toward a garden a good deal as I do toward a beautiful woman: I do not want to know how she gets her effects.
My feeling about garden work is quite different from my feeling about any other work I do on my small place. I love to slave in a stable or henhouse, for there must be no secrets in either, but I find that great discretion must be used in my work in my garden.
It is only fair to say that, anatomically, I am singularly unfitted for much of the work required. It is a long way to the ground, and to work doubled over, with my head between my knees, I find both tedious and unprofitable. But quite apart from this there are many cogent reasons for my dislike of this kind of work. I know people who delight in visiting a hotel kitchen, that they may see their feast in preparation. I regard this as little short of sacrilege. A perfect meal is a work of art,and why they should want to witness the sordid details of its preparation is a wonder to me. So it is, or should be, with a garden. The perfect product should be accepted in its perfection, without too much inquiry into or participation in its early stages.
So I delegate as much of this work as I can to hands more competent than mine, contenting myself with tentative suggestion and occasional oversight. The man-made and man-arranged part of a garden interests me but little; it is when Nature takes command, and, left to herself, begins to work her miracles that the beauty and the mystery of the garden call me to wonder and to worship.
Certain chosen tasks are my delight. An entirely unsystematic and listless weeding is one of them, though I confess that the uprooting of any growing thing always brings a pang of doubt to my mind. Often have I nurtured some alien plant and allowed it to flourish because I could not bring myself to tear it up, and passed anxious days lest it be discovered by those in authority.I like to take under my charge those plants that do not flourish, for I know it is man’s stupidity that makes them backward—some defect in their environment or arrangement. I try to solve the riddle, and sometimes I succeed. Some corner, some spot ill favored by sun or soil, fails to provide a living for anything put there; what delight to learn the secret, correct the error, and produce strong growth and hardy blossoms!
But my chief delight is to sally forth with shears, twine, and a sheaf of slender green sticks, and search out friends in need of succor.
To such as these I explain my errand. Even in my little garden, so “informal” as to be almost slovenly, I know that many cruelties are done: plants of varying and hostile habit thrown together, all living, like myself, under unnatural and often abhorred conditions, trying with all the strength that is in them to escape, to assert themselves, to be as Nature meant them to be. These I try to restrain gently and to correct their wayward tendencies. Often I find someplant that for countless generations has known but one habit of growth. Suddenly confronted by abnormal conditions and unfamiliar restraints, it throws tradition to the winds and develops new and strange habits, changes its appearance, and becomes a wanton thing. Such as these I try to restore—with many misgivings—to a more conventional manner of life.
There are those who, like children, are outgrowing their strength, and so I place the needed support and gently tie them to it, explaining, as to children, that it is but for a time, that the bonds are soft, and that as soon as the fibre toughens in their little minds and bodies it will be removed.
Then the cutting and pruning—there is sheer delight. Is it a spark of some old savage forbear that has given man his desire to kill, or is it merely man’s inherent vanity? I stand before the tiny bush, with flashing steel in hand. The cave man growls; his fingers itch to cut, to slash, to sever. The coxcomb struts and simpers; he wants the plant to bow before him or be slain; hewishes it to feel that only by the grace of this most graceless creature may it live. I know not which it be, perhaps a bit of both. Cut I do, but always with restraint, without the cruel pleasure of the brute; and in humility I strive to check my vanity of being by some mystery lord of this domain.
And when the heat of summer comes, when cruel thirst is drying leaf and bud, there comes a twilight hour when hose is brought and tiny pots are filled and full libations poured. Then later in the darkness you may walk and smell once more the odor of damp earth, and you can really hear the little thankful noises of the plants.
These are some of the pleasures that I know, but over all, supreme and final, is the kinship that you feel for every growing thing. To have this in the full, again I say: be wary of too intimate a view. You do not pry into the secrets of your friends; you do not care to know the hidden things that make them what they are. If you are wise you let your children have some little chambers in their minds close-locked againstintrusion, where the strange alchemy of life works out its mysteries.
So with my garden. There are many dark and shady little places where I do not pry, for here the sacred things are hid that I shall know in their fruition. If with a vulgar curiosity I poke about, expose them to the sun, and break the spell, I frustrate all the plans so quietly afoot. I watch it all and make my guess. I peep a little here and there, and smile when small reward results. I am quick to act when danger comes, but slow to bother when life runs in even tenor, and I try to coax my little garden to confide.
And when it once begins to tell its secrets to me, then no swain who wins at last his loved one’s confidence is more elate.
The early morning is the best. Not too early. I do not hold with those who, with the lark, attempt to catch a garden unawares. In decency, I mean, when all is ready, when the sweet languor of the night is past, but long before the business of the day has come—that is the time. Whensilver dewy webs are on the grass, when flower cups adroop are full, and leaves are damp. If you look close you’ll see a thousand secret things, exposed at night, not yet secluded from the sun. This and the evening hour are those of confidence.
All day the business of the little world goes on: the task of growth, of flowering and seed, the scented traffic of the toiling bee, the visits of the birds, the errands of the breeze, make for a busy time with little chance for secret enterprise. No man-made factory can compare with this in perfect unison, in calm control and harmony in work. I wish that every mortal who controls his fellows in their toil might have a garden to consult in time of strife, for if he did the strife would never be.
My right to have a garden is often tacitly questioned by those whose garden technique differs from mine. They may be right; I hold no brief for my unlettered manner. I am not wise; I do not know a thousand useful things; I try in vain to store my mind with countless facts thatwould enable me to hold my place in learned talk with experts at the game. But it is vain; I fail, as I have always failed, to know the niceties of any craft. I read and marvel that a mortal mind can compass all I find in garden books. I love to read them, for I feel a little sense of fellowship with those whose lore I envy, and I know they add new members to a goodly fellowship; but to claim I understand it all is vanity. The names alone! The strange and awful appellations which they give my homely friends! With what accustomed grace they handle them! I marvel at their erudition, and despair.
My own nomenclature is strange and weird. It serves my purpose, for I never try to talk of plants except between ourselves, and kindly members of my family condone my strange stupidity. Colors aid, and so does height of growth. What more convenient method could you ask? The tall white thing, the low one also white, the tall pink thing, its lower mate beyond—what could be better? And when we barter fornew seeds or plants I leave all that to those who know the names which nurserymen and seedsmen use to dignify their wares. Then, too, the habit of the things assists: the happy and the sulky ones, the proud, the modest, timid, or abashed. How plainly every one will give you clue to name it by. Of course, a few good names remain all twisted up with childhood’s memories of other gardens, other kindly folk, who taught them to us when we first became aware that gardens are, alone, the places on this earth most worth the space they occupy.
A garden must have privacy—a wall, a hedge, something to keep the world away, for here the choicest hours will be spent. It must have shade, for here will come repose for mind and body more serene than can be found elsewhere. It should be small or have a part reserved for fellowship with growing things. There must be seats, not horrid wooden things upon which no one in his normal mind would sit. For pure effect against a wall of green they satisfy, but as a place to rest, a mockery and sham.Give me low seats with ample room for elbows and for legs, so low your hand may touch the grass, that matches may be thrust into the ground and not thrown heedlessly about. These are the only trappings that you need, save pool or basin for the birds to bathe.
Of course, man starts no enterprise, no undertaking for his betterment, without attack from myriads of foes. Just why this should be so, I do not know. Perhaps his ignorance is cause; perhaps he counts as foes a thousand things that help him though he know it not. But certainly it seems ordained that garden joys should pay the highest toll in watchfulness and toil. Why cannot things be beautiful without a battle for the right to live? Perhaps it is that pleasures lightly won are lightly held. If this be so, then any garden which has won its way should give its owner deepest gratitude.
For every year new pestilence arrives, new swarms of insects bringing blight and death must be combated. Why should thisbe? Has not man suffered now enough to recompense that incident of long ago in the first garden that the new world knew? Why may we not contrive to make a place secure from harm, safe from some flying menace to all growth? Is it all wrong that we should thus attempt to fashion something sweet and pure and good? Or do we fly into the face of laws unknown to us, which, after all, are wise, if we but knew?
I do not know; but while the breath of life is in me, while eye can see and hand can serve my will, I’ll fight these creatures with relentless fury, that I may have a tiny spot, one little haven, one small safe retreat where beauty, peace, and quiet may be found.
My enmity does not extend beyond the insect brood. I feel quite differently about the impertinences of my little fur-bearing marauders. There wits are matched and cunning is displayed. The sluggish woodchuck is a friend of mine, and rabbits have a quaint bucolic flavor. A flash of cottontailamid the pea-brush is a pretty sight. Well may I feel a tolerance for rabbits, for they comprise one of the busiest departments of our establishment. These gentle, mild-eyed creatures make ideal pets for children. Their care teaches lessons of gentleness and foresight. Their wants are few, and great the joy they give. Our own started with a single pair, but, as time went on, we found ourselves embarrassed by a constantly increasing company. The great problem at first was security, but soon we fashioned an abode proof from attack by day or night, and so they lived content. At first our colony could be kept down to reasonable proportions by gifts to unsuspecting friends, but soon that outlet failed, and now we are in a fair way to be overwhelmed. Once in a while, by some unforeseen event a wholesale jail-delivery occurs, and countless rabbits swarm the place. I prayerfully hope that many may seek asylum in adjacent woods and not return, but by far the greater part come back, not having found the wild places to their taste.
It is during these periods that my garden suffers and my always doubtful popularity with my neighbors sinks to its lowest ebb. So when a flash of white, a pair of ears dart through my garden I content myself with shouts and harmless missiles badly thrown, for how can I tell that this tiny intruder is not some vagrant member of my own increasing flock?
There is one friend I have who seems to be part of my garden. He is a fellow worker too, a creature of rare tact, who calls but seldom. When in the twilight I catch sight of his squat black figure on the garden path I know my ally is afield. He seems a lonely soul, but quite content.
I wonder what the far-off recollections are that come to me when I behold a toad: faint pixy notions, sprites, hobgoblins and their ilk, and jewels too, a medley from the past. Why this small spot of black on business bent should send me off to fairyland, I do not know. But when the toad is near I always feel that fairy creatures are about me too. So, if I’m not observed, I fall intoa habit that besets and hold strange converse with him. And I hear of grottos far and damp, where jewels are in heaps my shoulder high. A princess lies in durance vile guarded by shapeless oafs. He tells of mountain fastnesses where caldrons simmer and old witches croon, of tiny chargers with small knights a-mount, of glittering plumes, of rapiers and shields, of gallant deeds, of breathless chase, of song, of dance, of strange small lights that flicker on the moor. It is my fancy that he knows of these. And this is what a garden does to me; this small soft creature, only out for food, becomes a fabled creature of romance, and surely if in days like these a toad can strike the shackles from your mind and let you be a child in every thought, a toad is well worth while.
He hops away and leaves me desolate. A tinkle sounds within the little house. I answer it. “Yes, yes. I know that matter of the school. O, Lord! I never go to meetings. But my vote? Oh, yes, I’ll come, but make it brief.”
As I ring off I’m asked, “Whom were you talking with just now out in the garden?”
“A friend,” I say, “who called to bring me news.”
“I hope it was not some stray dog. The garden suffers from too many friends.”
I know that she is right. I must be stricter with these trespassers, all save the toad who toils for me.
But the fact is, I cannot find it in my heart to dispute possession of this fair spot with any fellow creature, especially with those little wild folk whose right is vastly better than my own. No paltry written deed, doubtless defective in essential details, vouches for their occupancy, but rather long inheritance and straight descent from the first owners. A soft and inefficient point of view, I know. It wins scant approval from my friend who styles himself a hard-headed business man. He’s doubtless right, for I recall how once I battled in the marts of trade and how futile were my efforts to be like him, how weak and wavering were my policies, until I saw I was too soft and pliantto contest with him, and with what grace I could I then withdrew.
Since then, with what I have I live content. A dog, a horse, a cow, a pig or two, some fowl, and rabbits for full measure; with these I need not traffic or exchange; no trading this for that, no buying cheap and selling dear, no asking more than what I think is right. An empty life, you cry. Mayhap for you, but not for me. It is a life so full that half cannot be done.
And then, beside all these, a tiny house, well filled with kindred souls. Of these no words can tell, and it is well, for there are things of which no man may speak.
But in the garden that enshrines the house one may, with proper reverence, rejoice. For here the very essence of it all distills; here is the sign, the token of it all.
The sweet outdoors, the lure of husbandry; restrained and gentle though it be; the mystery of growth and fruitfulness; a beauty changing every hour, each day; the hours of tranquil joy and easy talk; the twilight with its hint of old romance; thenights, serene and fragrant, each with its mood to fill my brimming cup!
And so I sum my blessings up, and as I move about my small domain and visit each familiar spot and see once more the flowers and the beasts, in sheer content, with humble mind and thankful heart, I call them blessed, one and all.
Frog and rabbit